


Nameless, Faceless

by PetraPan



Series: Box of Curiosities [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Blowjobs, Dirty Talk, First Time, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-22
Updated: 2020-04-22
Packaged: 2021-03-02 00:22:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,372
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23786266
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PetraPan/pseuds/PetraPan
Summary: It was odd to be at the receiving end of gift drinks, and Dean openly stared at the stranger across the bar. There was a little smile on the man's face, just the turned-up corner of his mouth. Dean contemplated a course of action.1) He could accept the drink but ignore the invitation. 2) He could send it back, regretfully. 3) He could start something, and throwing a punch might settle his nerves just as easily as the fuck he was looking for. 4) He could accept the drink and the invitation.Dean threw a few bills on the counter, picked up his glass and walked over to the empty stool beside the stranger.
Relationships: Dean Winchester/OMC
Series: Box of Curiosities [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1874041
Comments: 12
Kudos: 31





	Nameless, Faceless

**Author's Note:**

> This is a pre-series thought that gripped me tight at 3 AM, and I couldn't get to sleep without typing it out. It's pretty much right before Dean heads to California in the Pilot episode. I don't have any reason for this, except I wanted Dean to be on his knees for a stranger. *Shrug*

The Broken Bottle was a dive bar if Dean had ever seen one. And he'd seen a lot—practically lived in them ever since he and his father had split off for different jobs. Dean walked in wearing a few hidden weapons, and a leather jacket that was slightly too big. But fresh off a successful hunt in New Orleans, he wore the jacket like it fit, the thrill of confidence filling out his shoulders and adding a few inches to his frame. His father had passed it down along with the car, and Dean treated them both like trophies.

The seedy place was pretty empty for it being so late, but the counter wasn't sticky when he sat down at the bar, and Guns N' Roses was playing over the speakers, so it could have been worse. Dean rapped his knuckles against the shiny wood surface.

"Whiskey, two fingers," he said, and received a nod from the barman. While he waited, he glanced around the bar, knee bouncing on his stool. It was badly lit, dark corners and dim booths, but there was something familiar about places like this that Dean found appealing. It was probably why he sought them out after a hunt, normalcy found in the turn of his tires on the road and shitty bars that all looked the same rather than a house, a white-picket fence, and 2.5 kids. New Orleans was a fun city to hunt in because he had to sift between fakes just trying to make a buck, and the real deal. Dean had been looking forward to the challenge, but this particular Voodoo Man had been sloppy, easily traced, easily killed. Barely a fight left Dean feeling itchy, but he'd waited until he got to Dallas before stopping to get cleaned up and find somewhere to go. Before he'd found The Broken Bottle.

A short glass was placed in front of him, and before the barman could leave, Dean downed the amber liquid. "Another," he requested.

"Want me to leave the bottle?" Dean shook his head.

"Nah, just need to take the edge off." The man shrugged, poured another two fingers, and walked away to fill a different order.

The good thing about places like this, was that people came here to forget, not to remember faces. Dean was careful on the job, but it was a good idea to not linger in town once it was finished. Lingering led to more questions than Dean was willing to answer honestly. Better to be a nameless, faceless guy in the crowd. The bad thing about places like this, was the people found in them. They were often uninteresting, boring nine to fivers who escaped home at—Dean checked his watch—one in the morning because of unhappy marriages. _Desperate and clueless,_ Dean thought as his eyes swept over the crowd. Eventually, these people would crawl home in a taxi or sleep off the buzz in their car, oblivious to the reality of the world that very few lived in. Dean's knee continued bouncing, nerves from his less-than-exciting hunt bundled up inside of him.

Dean picked up his glass, downed it again. There were only a few women here, carbon copies of each other. Normally, Dean didn't mind. Less names to remember was a good thing, and often he was only looking for something fast and mindless. Big blonde hair, smudged lipstick and mascara that could be seen even in the darkness of the bar, heels and tanned legs straight up to their necks. _Desperate and clueless_ , Dean hoped. He wasn't in the mood for clever. He just needed to take the edge off.

Just as he'd decided to go after the one in a red tank with a denim skirt, the one who looked a little too Fourth of July for so close to Halloween, the bartender placed another two fingers of whiskey in front of Dean.

He stared at it briefly. "I didn't order this."

"Guy at the other end did." The man jerked his head and left before Dean could ask a question, and Dean's gaze slid to the man at the other end of the bar.

It was odd to be at the receiving end of gifted drinks for attention, and Dean openly stared at the stranger. There was a little smile on the man's face, just the turned-up corner of his mouth, before he picked up his own whiskey and tipped it slowly back. He looked away from Dean. For a moment, Dean contemplated his course of action.

1) He could accept the drink but ignore the invitation. 2) He could send it back, regretfully. 3) He could start something, and throwing a punch might settle his nerves just as easily as the fuck he was looking for. 4) He could accept the drink _and_ the invitation.

But he'd never done so before, so why would he start? He'd thrown punches for less, but there was something interesting about how the guy had looked away, leaving the decision in Dean's hands. His knee had stopped bouncing.

Dean threw a few bills on the counter, picked up his glass and walked over to the empty stool beside the stranger.

"Thanks," Dean said, sitting down, tucking his knees under the bar and looking at the guy from the side of his eye.

"Rough day?" He still hadn't looked back at Dean, which was frustrating in itself, but it meant Dean didn't have a great impression of the guy. It made him uncomfortable, and he wished he'd catalogued his looks in greater detail a moment ago.

"Good day," Dean corrected, swirling his glass around and around before sipping at it.

Finally, the man swiveled on his stool. He was dressed black shirt on black jeans, blonde hair darkened by the pale light, and Dean felt his deep brown eyes crawling over Dean's combat boots and leather jacket like a physical thing. His knee started bouncing again.

"See anything you like?" He asked quietly.

"Uh," Dean stumbled, "No, not really." He swallowed. "Nothing worth pursuing."

The guy nodded. "Good thing, too." He pointed his glass in Ms. Fourth of July's direction. "She has nice tits but talks too much." He looked back at Dean. "You don't strike me as someone who wants to talk tonight."

Dean grinned. "Thanks for the warning." He turned in his chair, angling his body towards the other man.

"I'm Alex."

"Ted," Dean offered as his name.

"What are you doing here, Ted? You're not from around here." Again, he gestured with his glass to the general surroundings. "This is a 'regular' kind of place."

Dean shook his head. "Just passing through. Thought it might have something promising for me." He brought his whiskey to his mouth, sipped again. "But I guess not."

Alex smiled that corner smile again, leaned into Dean's space just enough so that Dean could smell alcohol and aftershave. "That's a shame." He propped his elbow against the bar, spread his legs a bit.

That bundle of nerves crackled in the back of Dean's neck, and he resisted the urge to rub at the spot. Dean noticed Alex's clothes fit him tightly, sleeves short and muscles of his arms displayed impressively, but Dean's eyes kept dropping to the openness of Alex's legs. The black denim was more of a worn gray and stretched tight over his thighs, as if the seams were just waiting to burst. Dean wondered if it would be the same sun-warmed skin of his arms underneath, or something pale and creamy, and his insides jolted at the wondering of it.

Dean had long ago placed those curiosities in a box and shoved it far away in his mind, and he was pretty sure a dive-bar in the middle of the night in Texas was not the place to open and unpack it. But the scent of Alex's aftershave was still lingering in his nose, and the slicked-back hair was annoyingly perfect and deserved being messed up, and he wore a little silver ring on his right pinky that clinked against his now empty glass. Dean wanted nothing more than to suck that ring right off his finger. Open, popped the box.

"Of course," Dean said carefully, swinging his knee to rest between the invitation of Alex's thighs, "I might change my mind." He finished his whiskey and pushed the glass away. 

"Well then," Alex counted out some cash from his wallet, "I guess I'll leave you to it."

For a moment, Dean was unsure, afraid that he'd read the situation wrong. Alex smiled again, and Dean's mouth watered with the desire to bite the corner of it. "Happy hunting," he said with a small wave, and headed towards the exit.

Dean watched him leave, a bit put out, but it wasn't the front exit that Alex moved toward. It was a back door near the bathroom sign, bright neon above with the E dark and unlit, reading "-XIT." Alex didn't look back until the door was almost closed, and even then it was just a sliver of dark eyes through the crack, a moment that Dean would have missed if he hadn't been blatantly watching.

It propelled Dean out of his seat to follow him.

The door creaked behind him and clicked closed with a finality of no re-entry. But that was fine. Dean rubbed his palms against his jeans, looked to the right and the left. Towards the right was the parking lot, the left the dumpster. Dean opted for the dumpster. He side-stepped the stacked up empty palettes, the cardboard boxes with wet corners from busted merchandise, poorly handled.

Alex stood with a foot against the wooden fence that horse-shoed around the bar. His body was shielded mostly by the dumpster, but if someone were really looking this way from the parking lot, they would surely be seen. A hot little thrill wound through Dean's shoulders.

This wasn't his first time against a wall with another bar patron. He'd been out here many times with other nameless, faceless people, skirts hiked up high, skin-tight jeans bunched around a single ankle, any sounds made drowned out from the noise within the bar. But standing here, looking at Alex cup his hands around his lighter, cigarette dangling from his mouth, Dean felt as green as he did on his first real hunt. Clammy and nearly sick with excitement.

Alex flicked the lighter away and it disappeared into his pocket. He took a long drag, blew the smoke out towards the night sky. "You want?" he held it out to Dean.

Dean shook his head. "Not that," he said, glancing down again at Alex's legs. It wasn't just sitting on the stool that made his thighs look ready to bust seams. Dean took a step forward. Another. Another, until he was knocking the drawn up knee aside and standing in the cradle of Alex's legs.

Unbothered, Alex took another drag, and Dean watched the ember of the cigarette recede towards Alex's lips. It was easy to see the five-o'clock shadow in the alley of the bar. The streetlamp nearby provided more light than the bar had altogether, and an image of Alex smoothing a razor down the long column of his neck made Dean harden.

Alex flicked the cigarette away. "Find anything promising?" he asked, fingertips touching lightly at the lapel of Dean's jacket.

"I don't know yet," Dean mused.

Grabbing at the lapel now, Alex leaned forward. "Let's find out." In a smooth motion, he'd turned them around, shoved Dean's back against the fence and bracketed him in with his legs. He spent a short moment reveling in the grunt that escaped Dean, inhaling his scent deeply before pressing his mouth to Dean's.

Strangely, Dean didn't know what to do with his hands when there were no round hips to hold or curved back to caress, but his hands knew instinctively where they _should_ be. They dropped immediately to palm at Alex's ass, and Dean felt the crooked smile against his lips. He gave in to the urge from earlier, nipping at the corner, enjoying the hissed out curse.

 _This wasn't so different,_ Dean thought. Pretty much all tongues in his mouth felt the same, the movements practiced, the dance of this known. But it was the sound of Alex moaning into his mouth, the hands that roughly slid up Dean's shirt, the hard thighs, the hard cock pressed against his own that made Dean almost delirious with the newness of it all. His lips felt leaden as they kissed, heavy and faltering with the effort to suck in air along with Alex's tongue. It didn't feel like enough.

" _Fuck_ ," Alex cursed again, nails scratching along Dean's sensitive rib cage. Remembering the little fantasy from the bar counter, Dean abandoned Alex's ass to grab his hand, bringing the pinky with the shiny ring to his mouth, and with his eyes on Alex, wrapped his lips around the digit, sucking lightly. Alex hadn't moved away, so breath came hot and heavy upon Dean's cheek, and he toyed with the ring with his tongue before sucking in another finger.

Alex took his other hand away from under Dean's shirt and moved it low, cupping the bulge in Dean's pants and rubbing. Dean moaned open-mouthed and Alex took the opportunity to switch fingers, pointer and middle sliding softly along Dean's tongue, fucking into his mouth with a slow rocking. Dean's hands had fallen to his side, fists clenching empty air as his eyes rolled back, hyper-focused on the fingers between his lips.

He couldn't think with how good it felt, how he wanted the slow stroking to continue. His hips jolted forward into Alex's grip, as he squeezed Dean's cock.

"You like that, don't you?" Alex whispered, a hoarse sound. Dean sucked the fingers hard, drawing them deeper into his mouth in place of an answer. "Shit, yeah," Alex mumbled, his other hand working expertly at the belt and button of Dean's jeans.

He rested his palm against Dean's chin, pressing down on Dean's tongue while he drew Dean's zipper down with his other hand. Alex leaned in to press his nose against Dean's neck.

"You walked in that bar like you owned the place," he murmured, teeth catching on Dean's skin as he spoke. "Did you know that?" Dean made a small noise, a bigger one when Alex finally got his hand in Dean's pants. "I wanted you immediately."

Alex's fingers circled the damp head of Dean's cock, slicking the way as he drew his hand down and back up slowly, pressure too gentle to do anything more than tease. Dean's lips paused for a second and his hands grabbed for Alex's belt loops, fisting the air suddenly insufficient.

"Do you want to know what I imagined about you, while you sat at the bar with your whiskey?" Helpless, Dean made another noise, sucking fervently the more frustrated he became at Alex's soft touch.

"Thought about kissing you, sure," Alex said, with a little suck to the side of Dean's neck. "Wanted to get you alone, take this jacket off you, see what you're hiding underneath all those layers."

Heat skittered across Dean's skin, and a whine escaped his mouth. It was garbled by the fingers, but it was a whine all the same, high-pitched, needy.

Alex licked at the splotchy redness of Dean's skin, already irritated with Alex's stubble. "Thought about getting these jeans off you, wrapping your knees around my head, bending you over one of those flimsy stools."

Dean's knee began to tremble when he tried to put weight on it, so he shifted.

"I thought of about ten separate fantasies in there, but nothing," Alex groaned as he withdrew his wet fingers to trace around Dean's mouth, " _nothing_ , comes close to this."

Alex stepped back a little and Dean moaned in protest as both Alex's hands left. Dean felt the chill of the October evening over his exposed cock, his spit-slicked mouth. Alex's hands unbuttoned and unzipped his jeans deftly, and they opened loosely to reveal his own straining prick. He grabbed at it, squeezed. Dean's mouth watered again, a never-ending supply of saliva that he didn't have time to be embarrassed about, because Alex was stepping forward again, fingers going right back to Dean's lips.

"Do you want these?" Alex whispered, letting them rest against Dean's lips lightly, barely even touching. Dean swallowed, opened his mouth slightly to lick at the fingers. Alex walked them into his mouth and Dean closed his lips around them, tongue laving over the pads, feeling the smooth nail, the torn cuticle, the thin webbing between them. "Are they enough for you?"

Dean didn't understand the question at first, mind so attuned to the feel of them in his mouth. And then Alex pressed down, adding pressure until Dean couldn't suck, or lick, or do anything but allow his jaw to open and stretch.

"Fuck, you're pretty," Alex said with feeling. "Do you want something else in your mouth?"

Dean's brain fizzled out through his ears, jaw already aching, but his cock jumped at the idea of it.

"Do you want something else in your mouth, Ted?" A name not his own startled Dean enough to clear thinking.

He cleared his throat. "I've," he started, stopped. Frowned. "I've never..." Wet fingers rubbed at Dean's mouth, and he watched the slow movement of Alex drawing down his underwear. His cock was long, thick, darker hair at the base than the blonde strands which now hung in Alex's eyes. But Dean couldn't deny the fresh salivation, the instant thought of how it would feel against his tongue, stretching his jaw open with the familiar burn of pain.

He decided on a lie. "I mean, it's been a while."

Again, Alex rubbed at Dean's lips, rubbed lightly at his own cock. He leaned forward, replaced fingers with his mouth and licked at Dean's tongue. He thrust his hips forward, slick head sliding against the base of Dean's length, and Dean's breath caught in his throat. They stayed like that for a moment, hips a suggestion against the other's, but the longer they kissed, the more impatient Dean became. He wasn't sure what he wanted, but this wasn't enough. The bundle of nerves he'd entered the bar with had not yet unwound, and he thought about ending this, just stepping away and heading for the Impala.

But then Alex shoved his thumb into the corner of Dean's mouth, pushed it down so he could lick at the roof of Dean's mouth, behind his teeth. One of Dean's hands slapped against the wooden fence, the other scrambled for the thumb hooked at his skin.

"Fucking want this, don't you?" Alex breathed into Dean's mouth. "Look so good with my fingers, suck them so pretty." Dean held on to Alex's wrist, feeling the wet heat of their combined exhales. It was uncomfortable, should have killed the mood right there. But there was something undeniably filthy about the sensation of being stretched open, the cock sliding against his own, and the half-mad babbling of Alex.

"Fingers are dripping, baby," Alex crooned in half sentences. "Wet enough to open you up with, fuck you with my hand, yeah?" He bit at Dean's lips, sucked at them until Dean shuddered and groaned. "Get you soaking wet with your own spit, hmm?" Alex took them both in hand, fucking against Dean's hips while he squeezed. A wet noise bubbled up from Dean's throat. He couldn't breathe, mind consumed with the image of being turned around, the weight of Alex against his back, movement of a dick against his ass.

 _Yeah,_ he tried to say. _Yeah, I want it,_ but the thumb in his mouth made the words a mess. Spit dribbled from the corner of his lips, and Alex caught it with his thumb, pushed it back into Dean's wet mouth.

"Want your mouth on my cock," Alex said, but the words sounded far away, quieted by the haze of Dean's mind. "Want you to get it all wet, those pretty lips sucking me." Dean felt the thumb leave his mouth and his jaw relaxed, free of pressure. A hand pressed on his shoulder, and with one weak knee, Dean went down to the dirt easily. He looked up at Alex, mouth swollen. The cock in front of him suddenly seemed so much bigger from this angle, and Dean figured it would be impossible to fit in his mouth. Surely they would have to leave the encounter at this. But then, Alex's thumb was back at Dean's mouth, petting, encouraging.

"Open up for me, baby," and the tip of Alex's cock was at Dean's lips. He flinched a little, but Alex didn't seem to notice. He simply encouraged the opening of Dean's jaw with his thumb, then replaced it.

At first, all Dean could register was a salty, sweaty taste. Not altogether unappealing, but not the greatest in the world. He figured, _curiosity sated,_ but the further Alex pushed his cock, the more Dean felt the stretch of his jaw.

" _Yes_ ," Alex hissed, drawing the word out into three syllables. His face scrunched closed, but then he opened his eyes, stroked softly at Dean's cheek. "Go on," he said. Instinctively, Dean opened his mouth further, trying to adjust to the feeling of something so foreign. His tongue ran against the underside, and he felt the velvety skin and hard vein. He gave a little suck, backing off to get a better breath, but Alex pushed right back in.

"You're a natural," Alex babbled. "Knew you would be; watched you drinking and thought 'he's got a mouth made for sucking cock.'" Dean's hands came up to grab at Alex's thighs, intent on shoving him away. Alex drew back entirely, ruining Dean's plan and leaving his mouth hanging open and empty, wet cockhead bumping against Dean's lips with every breath Alex heaved.

Dean thought he would be relieved without the stretch, that his jaw would stop hurting, and it did, but it also ached in a new way. In the same way Dean knew he wanted to suck at the ring of Alex's finger, he knew he wanted Alex's cock back in his mouth. Already he wanted the stretch, the burn again. He wanted the fullness, the wet slide, the pressure against his tongue.

Tentatively, he licked at the head, and realized the salty flavor wasn't as noticeable. It was easier to suck the cock back in his mouth the second time, and he moved back and forth, trying to figure out what it was that gave him the stretch he wanted. Alex's hands were in Dean's hair, scraping over his scalp, fingertips pressing at the back of his skull. There was a request in those hands, but it hadn't been voiced yet, and Dean didn't have the mental faculty to suss it out for himself. It was difficult to come up with an answer once it was, though.

"Let me fuck your mouth," Alex begged, repeating the question with urgency when Dean gave no response. He had no idea what to say, torn between _no_ and the pressing desire of relinquishing control. Already, Dean was flexing his fingers against the jumping muscles of Alex's thighs, and he wanted his mouth on those, too.

"So fucking wet, you'll love it," he cajoled, "just relax for me." And Dean did, used to taking orders without question. His mouth went slack, and Alex thrust shallowly into Dean's lips.

"Oh, yeah, so perfect," he praised, and warmth spread through Dean like a wildfire. "Fucking look at you."

Dean couldn't see himself, but he imagined he was quite the picture. Mouth red and swollen, eyes watering from the strain, spit dripping down his chin, hands with a death grip on a stranger's thighs and his own cock, jutting out hard from his hips with his knees in the dust. There was no denying that he was enjoying this.

"Anyone could see us like this," Alex groaned, obviously turned on by the thought. "Anyone could walk out that door and see your lips wrapped around my dick." Now, his thrusts came a little faster, a little deeper down Dean's throat. A tickle was building, but Dean's skin was alive with the possibility of discovery.

"I wouldn't stop, don't think I could. Look at you, so hungry, taking my fat cock like you were made for it." Alex's hands were on Dean's jaw now, holding him steady as he thrust. Dean choked out a noise but he wasn't sure if it was a moan, or if he was actually choking. It was hard to breathe, and his vision went a little hazy. His hands dropped to his own neglected erection, and there was a solid string of precum dangling from the head of his cock. It slicked the way perfectly for his hand, and Dean made another sound, definitely a moan this time.

" _Fuck,"_ Alex ground out, fingers pressing hard into Dean's jaw. "Open wide, baby."

Dean obeyed, stretching his jaw open until he thought it might pop out of place, and Alex thrust deep into his mouth, cockhead hitting the back of Dean's throat repeatedly. Dean released his dick, scrambling against the fence for purchase. He could feel spit sliding down his throat, soaking the collar of his shirt. Alex's powerful thighs strained as he rose to his tiptoes, fucking down into Dean's throat. This was too much, he couldn't _breathe—._

Alex shuddered. "Fucking coming," he said. "Gonna come down your throat, gonna feed it to you, _fuck_." He broke off another swear as his body stilled, jerked, and Dean coughed hard around the intrusion in his mouth. He couldn't tell the difference between Alex coming and Alex still using his cock as a battering ram, but as soon as he pulled away with another shudder, Dean slid to the side and coughed, spat out what he could. Before he got a chance to wipe at his mouth, Alex was hauling him up by his armpits.

" _Hey,"_ Dean began to protest, but before he could say more, Alex was licking at Dean's swollen mouth, the puffy lips that struggled to form words properly. He shoved Dean up against the fence, pushed his fingers back into Dean's mouth. Breathing hard, Dean didn't even have the energy to suck at the fingers like he wanted. His whole face was sore; the corners of his mouth felt split in a Joker-esque grin from the rough handling, and what covered Alex's fingers now was a mixture of spit and come, still sliding down Dean's neck.

"Not done with you," Alex murmured against Dean's mouth, slicking up his fingers as much as he could before taking hold of Dean. A half-formed curse was bitten off by Alex's impatient mouth, and he stripped Dean's cock fast and hard.

Dean groaned, wobbly and oversensitive. He felt right on the edge, but his mouth wouldn't move properly to warn. Alex was still pressed up against him, sucking harshly at Dean's pained lips. Dean whimpered a little, on the knife's edge of too much pain, on the knife's edge of coming harder than ever before.

"So fucking hot," Alex praised, again. "Gonna make you come, sweetheart." Dean shook, the rickety fence trembling along with him.

"You have no idea how you looked with my cock in your mouth, do you?" The words were whispers against Dean's mouth, barely understood with the fever of his orgasm on the horizon. "Like you needed it, fucking wanted it so bad, _loved_ the feel of my dick splitting your mouth, huh?"

Alex's hand flew quickly, tightening over the head of Dean's cock, and they groaned together. "Wanna get you naked," Alex said with a nip to Dean's mouth. "Let you suck on my fingers until they're properly wet, then open you up with them. You want that?" He asked. Dean didn't have an answer, couldn't even _see_ , much less think. He felt a tear well up in the corner of his eye. He just... he just needed a little more, he was _right there._

Alex licked across Dean's sore lips, licked up the wetness that leaked from the corner of his mouth. "Gonna use your own spit to open you up, then fuck your ass until you beg, stuff my fingers in your mouth until you can't even do that."

 _Oh,_ Dean thought, the words, the image flying through him with the force of a bullet, kickback and bullseye together as he grunted and twitched, coming across the clench of Alex's fist.

"Come for me," Alex encouraged, watching the shuttering of Dean's eyes.

His orgasm seemed to last forever, aftershocks bursting through him like a firework show late to the party. "Jesus Christ," Dean ground out, once he had his breath back, and his feet felt a little more sure underneath him.

"That was intense," Alex agreed. He buttoned himself back up, stroked a hand across Dean's cheek as Dean did the same. "Come home with me."

Alex seemed as surprised by the words as Dean was, but he didn't backtrack or correct himself. Part of Dean wanted to, wanted to follow him home and spend the rest of the morning reliving the fullness, the pressure, the slick heat and hard body of a man.

"I can't," Dean said, finally. "I'm just passing through."

For the second time that night, Alex reached for his wallet. He withdrew a business card. "That has my personal number." He shoved the little rectangle into Dean's hands. "If you're ever in Dallas again, give me a call." He leaned in, kissed Dean gently, softly drew his bottom lip in. Alex released it with a slow suck. "I'd love to see you again," he whispered.

The bundle of nerves Dean had carried with him into the bar had smoothed out with his orgasm, and Dean was already packing up the box of curiosities again. "I will," he lied. "Give you a call, I mean."

Alex pulled out another cigarette from his back pocket, leaning against the fence like Dean had found him, like Dean hadn't just been on his knees for a stranger and was uncomfortable with the need to do it again as soon as possible. He lit the cigarette and grinned crookedly.

"Goodbye, Ted." Dean just smiled and walked away.

Back in his car, Dean thoughtlessly adjusted his jeans to lay more comfortably over his sensitive dick. Thirst for company quenched, he felt able to focus once more on the only thing that _really_ mattered.

He hadn't heard from his father in a bit. Dean hadn't been worried on a few days with no contact; sometimes John Winchester got a little too deep, diving into a case and forgetting to come up for air, much less call or text his son. Hunting could be like that sometimes, and even a week with zero communication wasn't unusual. But he was three weeks late for check-in. Now, Dean was a little worried. A bad feeling was climbing up his spine.

He checked his phone, surprised to see the voicemail notification blinking at him, almost accusatory for not picking up. It could have been another hunt, but it also could be his dad.

And it _was_ his father, but the relief at knowing he was okay was short-lived. The message offered no explanation for the radio silence, just added more confusion. It sounded like he could use some help, anyway.

Dean dragged out his map, checked the highways. He could make it to Jericho, California, his father's last known location, in another day or so if he drove straight through. As always, his eyes traveled to another part of California. His fingertip touched Los Angeles, then a centimeter down, were Stanford University was.

Where Sammy was.

Dean folded away his map and pulled out of the dirt parking lot of The Broken Bottle. "I think it's time for a family reunion, Baby," he spoke to the dash, petting at the leather of his steering wheel. Dean turned on the radio and merged onto I-10 West, Dallas to Los Angeles.


End file.
